Mercedes' Walk

Dominicans crammed into a back of flatbed truck waiting to be taken home. Imagine seeing this on a highway, the truck going over 60 MPH and the people passing around beer bottles. Yes, it does happen.
Mercedes (in blue) walking back to her house with Cha Cha and Cha Cha's grandson.
People sitting on top of and inside the dugout in the baseball field watching the commotion.


Yesterday my town played host to all neighboring towns for the start of Holy Week. Every year, a different town within the providence is chosen for this event. Whichever town is picked, people from all the other towns are supposed to walk there- in what I would imagine to honor Jesus' passion. Although it would have been crazy for these people to walk all the way to La Caya, many of them did start a mile or so out, or even half a mile and walk up to town. A pretty incredible feat, given that Dominicans hate to walk and it was ridiculously hot yesterday.

I have never seen my town so full of people. The one street leading into town was packed, with cars, motorcycles and people. Most of them I had never seen before. They all walked up to where the baseball field is, and there there was a tent set-up where the religious ceremony was happening. Although the purpose of the event was religious, most people were there to socialize.

The biggest thing, in my opinion, however that happened through all of this, is that the Grandma of the family I eat lunch with left the house to see what all the festivities were about! As I was walking around, being stared out for being the only American among all these people, I saw Mercedes (Grandma) walking down the street with her oldest daughter, Cha Cha. I instantly lit up inside and started to zig-zag my way through the crowd and was almost burned by a motorcycle exhaust pipe in my hurry. When I finally made it through the labyrinth of people, Cha-Cha saw me and gave me a huge smile as she simultaneously pointed to her mom walking through the crowd.

"Mama," I cheered! "You are here! With all these people. Are you okay?"

"Imagine!" Cha Cha answered. "We were sitting in the house and she (Mercedes) said she wanted to see all the people here, so I said, let's go! And look! She actually left and here we are together!"

I gave Mercedes a hug and Cha-Cha one too and I can't tell you how excited Cha Cha was to be walking around with her mom. Cha Cha then told me that it had been over a year since Mercedes had left the house.

Over a year! Mercedes has quite a few health problems, and she tires easily. Although she has energy to be awake and even do a few house chores, she doesn't like to leave the grounds of her house, not even to walk down the street to the market. Yesterday was the first time in over a year she's ventured further than the fence beyond her house.

It was an incredible moment to be apart of. Mercedes and Cha Cha only walked around for about 10 minutes before Mercedes wanted to go back home, but the energy and happiness that was beaming from Cha Cha left me feeling so content. As the hundreds of people in the street rested from their walk up to La Caya, in my mind there was only one person there whose walk really mattered.

March on through...

Time is starting to pick up. It's already edging toward the end of March, which means April is almost here, which means May is almost here, which then means I not only have a year and a couple months in country, but also a year in my site. There's a quote in a song I really like- something like, "If I can just get through January, February I'll March on through April and May." There is serious truth to that.

Last weekend I had a new Peace Corps Volunteer come visit me in my site, to see "how I live." I did the same thing last year at this time while I was in training, and my volunteer visit over a year ago was enlightening in numerous ways. It showed me that I could have an independent life on this island and that public transportation did not mean I was going to be involved in a drive-by shooting (which actually realistically still could happen, I'll keep you posted). It also showed me, that with time (a year) I could be confident and living a happy life here in the DR.

I wanted my new volunteer (Channler, 22, from Wisconsin) to have similar feelings when he left La Caya and headed back to training in Santo Domingo. I did my best to show him my town (which of course, took about an hour), introduce him to people, take him to my center, sit in on my English class, tell him realistically what he can expect from working with Dominicans, the best treats to buy at colmados (small grocery-like stores that are everywhere in the DR) and how wonderful it is to heat up water on the stove to take a hot bucket bath.

We also went into Santiago and met Karina, another PCV who closes her service (COS) in May. She also had a new volunteer visiting, and we took them around Santiago to the touristy spots and the not so touristy spots. We took them to Sushi for lunch, which I think at first they were nervous, but turned out to be a great treat (as it always is for us PCVs). We went to a real grocery store, which is a must-do in my opinion (PS, grocery stores are amazing, and truly show America's wealth. All that food in one place and every decent sized city in America has at least 10-15 in ONE city. Blows my mind). We bought food to make tacos that night, and by the end of our city visit, Channler told me he is going to ask that his site be close to Santiago.

It was a good weekend, and it helped me to reflect about everything I've been through this last year, everything I have accomplished and everything I have yet to do. I felt like my site was on the boring side for Channler, but that's also my life here. I work at my center everyday, but there is a lot of downtime. To pass this downtime, I will go sit in a plastic chair in front of the biggest colmado in town and watch people walk or drive by. It's what everyone else does, and Peace Corps preaches at us to "integrate." And let me tell you, that is integrating.

This week my center decided that we need to start six youth groups. I've been talking about youth groups since September, but now the government affiliate (the office of the First Lady) has mandated that each center starts at least six youth clubs. These clubs include: Chess, Health, Environment, Reading, Theater and Science. I have been put in charge of the Environment, Health and Science clubs. I'm a little nervous about starting all of these clubs at one time, but if my team is finally motivated to do it, I'm not going to oppose it.

A strange cultural difference is how formal the DR can be. For example, when we decided to start these youth groups, I had a vision of us going to the school and announcing the clubs to the kids and telling them to come to the center and sign up for which ones they were interested in. However, as I have learned, that is not how it's done here. Yesterday, myself and the people at my center sat around and hand-picked kids from the community to be in each club. For me, this was difficult, because Dominican names are crazy and although I do know a lot of the kids here, I will admit that I am not the best with their names. So I had kids in mind, and instead of using their names, it turned more into, "you know, the kid who lives around the corner over there. He has the thing on his head? You know, that kid."

Another culture difference, Dominicans are NOT shy about using physical descriptions openly to define someone. Although me saying "the thing on his head," would not be politically correct in America, here it just describes someone, so there is no offense taken. Another example, people in my town will tell me I'm getting fatter all the time. They don't mean it to be mean, and many times when they tell me I'm fatter they are actually complimenting me, because I must be eating well in their country. Still, my American upbringing can't help but feel slightly offended when these comments are made. I'm getting more used to it though, of course as time goes on.

Anyway, we hand-picked these kids to join the club, and now hopefully they will actually show up and we can START these clubs. I am most excited about the Health club, as I want to use it mostly to talk about sexuality and sexual decisions. No one here ever talks about this with the youth, but then 13-year-old girls in my community run off to get "married." Hopefully we can educate the kids about the environment along with trash clean-ups every week. As far as the science club goes, I'm hoping to do basic experiments like alka seltzer and diet coke. Any ideas for any of these clubs? Please don't hesitate to share!

The bosses from the First Lady's Office also came out to my site to check in on how things were running. I got in a fight with them about painting a map mural of the DR on the wall. They said all the centers were "institutionalized" and need to look the same. My mouth got the best of me and I told them that all the centers look boring, and if this is supposed to be a place of education, how does a map hurt that image? At this point, I don't even care. Once my grant money comes through, I'm buying paint and painting a map of the DR on the wall. They can blame it on the American if they really get angry.

In other news, my friend Kerrie from Los Estados Unidos is coming here TOMORROW! She'll be here for the week and I am so excited. We're going to spend a few days in my site, and then head up to the North Coast and enjoy the perks of living on an island... a.k.a the beach!

Yes, things seem to be picking up. And just as the song said, I got through January, February and now I'll March on through April and May.

blame it on the dengue

To be honest, I have been down the last week or so. I'll blame it on the dengue fever I'm currently recovering from. They tell me that one of the final signs is a case of depression. I thought at first maybe it was being here one year and questioning what it is I've really accomplished, and what I will accomplish in the year ahead. Thinking about projects I started and never finished, or projects that started and ended due to lack of interest. Am I ever going to feel like I really did something for my town? Like my two years here was worth it for the people who live in La Caya and myself? Am I wasting my time here? Have I gotten everything I can in being here and now this next year I'm doomed to boredom and disappointment? How will I know if anything that I've done or will do is sustainable? If a single mom names her child after me (Estesy- as they call me), is that my new definition of sustainable or self-preservation? Maybe the later is more important to me than I ever could have guessed. All these feelings, all these questions and doubts- don't worry, they're not me, it's just the dengue talking.

On Wednesday I'm starting morning English classes. I've been avoiding it as long as I can (and being sick with dengue for a week actually helped that situation). But alas, I can avoid it no longer and so basic English classes will start in the mornings twice a week. English is another thing that sort of depresses me. I feel like it's all I do. I know that if it's all I did for two years, my town would think I did a great and wonderful job. I struggle with English, because although I know why there is so much interest, I can't help but think it's all kind of pointless. What happens after I leave? Nothing. English stops and the majority of my students will not take classes in the nearby town where there is an "English learning center." And the reality of them learning English with me? Some key phrases, grammar and vocabulary- but as I have learned- language learning comes with total immersion. One girl in my class actually asked me this the other day. She asked, "you've been here a year and you speak Spanish now, how come I don't speak English the way you speak Spanish yet." I asked her what language she had just asked me that question in and when she left class what language would she speak when she walked through the door?

Is that how my entire time here is going to be? Once I officially leave in May 2011, my time and my work here will be as insignificant as my English classes? Man, I'm good at feeling sorry for myself. But don't worry, it's just the dengue talking.

Even as depressed as I want to be, God works in mysterious ways. Yesterday, as I took my daily walk up to my center in the morning, a strange and curious thing happened. A bus-full of Americans all wearing matching T-shirts that read "Heath Corps" started to unload into my school. I felt like I was looking at the inside of a fish bowl, watching these Americans unload suitcases full of pharmaceutical drugs, tables, chairs and other supplies.

I sort of stood there like a deer in the headlights, not really sure how to approach these people or what language to speak to them. Finally I made eye contact with a nurse and I asked her what they were doing. She was just as surprised with me as I was with her, and she told me they were staying at an orphanage in a nearby town and were hosting a medical mission today at the school for La Caya. Eventually I found the people in charge, introduced myself, told them my story and asked if I could help. I spent the rest of the day translating from Spanish to English, mostly in the pharmacy. I even got a free sack lunch which consisted of a stale peanut-butter sandwich, an apple, a bag of chips and a gatorade. Everyone complained about the sandwiches were stale and the apples were soggy, but I thought everything was delicious.

I never really figured out how they ended up at La Caya. I asked the people in charge, and they didn't even really seem to know. But I met some great people from all over the states, taking a week off from work or spending their spring break from school helping where they can in the DR. I felt really tired after the day. Maybe because it's the first time I've worked a FULL day since I was in Jimani, but that sounds kinda pathetic, so I'll just blame it on the dengue.

Yesterday was good for me. It gave me hope in the random and unexpected. Even though things can seem mundane here and like I'm not doing much to change them- random Americans can show up and help 300 people in your town in a way you never could. It's humbling and inspiring. Not just because of their work, but because of the relationships I've made here and my understanding of how things work here as well. Yesterday, as I walked around the school, a few of the old woman grabbed me and told me I was "their American." I could feel them being proud of me. It was like bringing home a good report card from school. My community members left yesterday exactly at noon even before they had their prescriptions. When this happened, the nurses and volunteers looked at me as to why they would do this- it made perfect sense to me. "Well, it's lunch time," I told them. "Of course they're going to leave. Aren't you hungry?"

So maybe I'm not changing the world one English class at a time. Of course I am going to be bored and disappointed at some points over the next year, and maybe a baby will never be named after me... but I'm here and I'm living. I'm trying and surviving and am blessed in more ways than i could ever count. Even if I have to take a nap during the day because sometimes, it all gets to be too much- no worries, I'll just blame it on the dengue.

March 4- happy one year anniversary

Today is the anniversary of my one year in country. Thinking about it now, I can't decide if it went fast or slow. Some moments went unbelievably fast, while others seemed to have crept by at a snail's pace. I heard a volunteer talking about how time passes for volunteers and I think he pinned it perfectly, "the days go slow, but the months go fast." Is that even possible? Sure, because anything is possible in the Dominican Republic. And with that in mind, I think I'll just take a few minutes to reflect the changes I've seen within myself over the past year.

1)I feel uncomfortable standing for too long in social situations. - Yes, I am serious. Dominican culture insists that you sit. So no matter where I go, or what I'm doing, I am always offered a chair. If you go to someone's house and stand for too long, they start to look at you strangely, especially when they've already offered you a chair. And I would never dream about turning down a chair once it's been offered to me. I mean, come on, that's like social suicide.

2)I am more assertive yet more passive - All of us volunteers have discussed this- how since coming to this island we feel meaner. I can feel myself being more assertive and aggressive when I want something, I hear it in my voice and I see it in my actions. The things I do on this island to get my way would never in a million years be acceptable in the states. For example, when I walk into a colmado (or corner store), the first thing I do is edge myself right up front with whoever is waiting to be served, start yelling at the person behind the counter for what I want, and if necessary even banging my fist a little on the counter to rouse attention. It's not rude here, it's how it's done. I can't imagine myself going to a supermarket back home, walking straight to the cashier and saying in this language, "Give me 3 tomatoes, a bag of pasta, two cloves of garlic and a gatorade. Hurry." Without the slightest thought of a please or thank you, mind you. And this I have noticed, has transferred into my professional life. It's not that I want to be a mean and aggressive person, but when everyone else is communicating with each other in this way, you have to keep up.

Oppositely, I do feel more passive, because being here has been the most humbling experience of my life. Much of that came with not knowing Spanish or this culture, and when I first got to this country, especially to my site last May, even trying to buy a tomato from the colmado was extremely intimidating. I found myself (and still do) in situations I would never put myself in, because either I don't fully understand what is being asked of me, or I don't quite know the right way to say No. Sometimes I wish I could put a spell on my entire town so they could all speak and understand English for one day- then we could talk and they could really see that I do know what I'm talking about, that I am educated, that I do have experience, that I am passionate etc. In the meantime, I still am finding my inner Spanish voice. I know it's in there and everyday I can feel it slowly emerging.

3. Sharing is not a choice, but a way of life - I am continuously amazed at this culture and its people's ability to share. Today for example, Mari, a co-worker at my center, had a mint that she was willing to break in half for me if I wanted some. It doesn't matter how big or how small something is- there is no mine in the DR. This is a habit that is wearing off on me, and one I hope will continue after I leave here. What good is that candy bar, cookies, soda, gum, if you have to eat it all by yourself?

4. There is no place like America - I have always known this, but after living in a foreign country that is just that, foreign for a year, my old way of life never seems to lose its appeal. Being here and never really feeling like I fit in, makes me understand how immigrants in American can spend 30 years in the US and never learn English, and why in New York City, there is a Polish section, a Jewish section, a Greek section, a Dominican section. As people, we get comfortable and want to stick with what is comfortable, especially in uncomfortable situations. I'm proud of myself for being uncomfortable for a year. Proud of myself for putting myself out there, even if it means I will always be an outsider. But I'm also grateful, that in 14 months, I will be able to return to my home country, with my American values and ways.

5. Dang, it feels good to be a woman - I have always been proud to be a female and up to the challenges of it, and being here and seeing woman in a more "traditional" role- only helps to appreciate who I am and who I am not as a woman. Moreover, how lucky I am to be an American woman- where being 24 and unmarried doesn't make me a spinster. Further than that, I do have a new appreciation for Dominican woman and how hard they work for their home and their children. When I think of the word selfless, I think of my own mother and Silvia, the mom of the family that I eat lunch with everyday. Her whole life is consumed around her family, everything she does, literally everything, is for them. It is her lives work, and it is a beautiful and noble thing.

6. Family - I have always known how important family is and how you yourself can be defined by your family. Being here and being surround by other families that are not my own, but who have opened their doors, their hearts and their kitchen tables to me- has put a new perspective on my life. I have realized in my own life, if I can serve this world to do good and to make my family proud, than I have accomplished everything that is possible and important for me.

And so, what I would really like to say in this self-reflection blog entry, is thank you. Thank you to all my freaking coolest friends on the planet, Corinne, Remi and his family, everyone from church, all my aunts and uncles, my two amazing grandmothers, and especially my wonderful family - Mom, Baba, Jim, Mike, Meghan and everyone else who has supported me over this last year. Thank you for packages, your emails, your thoughts and prayers. It has not been an easy year, and it has been one filled with challenging and wonderful surprises. I am so grateful for all of you, and even though I only have this blog to say it- I love you all and can't wait for you to come visit!!!!!!

From Jimani

I have thought for awhile now about what I would write about my time spent volunteering at a relief hospital in Jimani, on the border of the Dominican Republic and Haiti. Every day I was there, there seemed to be something unbelievable, shocking and unexpected both in good and bad ways that will leave me thinking about this experience for the rest of my life. I feel different now than I did before I left. I feel more grateful for my life. I feel sad and frustrated with cultural and language differences. I feel depressed knowing no matter how similar people can be, there seems to always be two distinct groups: those giving the aid and those taking the aid. I feel hopeful for change and reconstruction- not just of a city, but for the people living within that fallen city. “Haiti is alive!” is something my short eight days in Jimani taught me, and although I would like to include every detail as it happened while I was there, the following are a few of my stories, in hopes to share a better understanding with anyone who is interested to know.
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On my second full day, I had a breakdown. It was sunset, and as the hot, dry day slowly turned into the cool night air, I had to pull away from everything and walk out into the desert alone. It hit me-the death, the despair, the destruction this earthquake had caused. I had been trying to ignore it since I arrived. Trying to ignore the obvious hurt and suffering when you see a 12-year-old or a 60-year-old with an amputated arm. These people had lost everything. Their homes, their schools, their businesses, their family. And now they were the lucky ones, because they had somehow managed to get to the Dominican side of the border to a hospital that was staffed internationally with doctors, nurses and volunteers.

At first the tears were inconspicuous and controlled, but after one fell down my cheek and attempted to wash away the dirt and sweat that was embedded in my pours from the day’s work, they soon flooded out of me with no control. I didn’t know if I was crying for the eminent loss that was everywhere, or the fact that we had just spent the whole day separating family members from patients- telling everyone that only one family member was allowed to every one patient. I watched as patients were given a choice between their family and their doctors. I, along with my Peace Corps peers were not the least bit surprised when patients chose not to break up or separate their family, and instead of waiting for a needed surgery, boarded a bus to go back to Haiti. When the American doctors, nurses and volunteers were puzzled over this choice, or worse indifferent, I couldn’t help but feel ashamed.

I guess as Americans, we are taught to take care of ourselves first, especially when it comes to our health. That if what you need is an operation to live, then of course it will be your first priority. Not everyone in the world thinks like Americans. There are those that would never put anything first before their family. Not themselves, not their success, not even their broken leg, which without surgery will probably never heal correctly. And so we watched and helped the process, as women, men and children with metal rods sticking out of their legs, elbows and arms boarded the bus to return to Haiti.

Crying alone in the desert, I was in a squatting position, stabling myself with my hands in the dirt. Enough, I told myself. I walked back over the pediatric ward, which was a converted chapel on the grounds. I went back to help finish the job- to continue telling these people only one family member could remain. The moment I entered, a young Haitian woman made eye-contact. I didn’t have the guts to look back at her. And as I walked up to another volunteer telling a translator the same repeated message, the woman grabbed my arm and shook her head telling me without words that I didn’t need to cry. I finally made eye contact with her and she smiled. I said in Spanish, “yo se,” or “I know.” Not because she spoke Spanish, but because English just didn’t seem right.

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This process of cutting our numbers did not happen in just one day, and there were even some patients and family members who were more than happy to leave the hospital grounds. Two women in particular, could not have been more relieved to go back to their home country.

A child to each of the women, their number was actually five. While staying at the hospital, they had taken in an orphaned boy whose supposed father was in Port-au-Prince waiting for him. The two women, each holding their own toddler had been protecting the boy while he recovered in the hospital and had promised to take him to his father when they all returned to Haiti.

For the first hour, as the five of them waited for the late bus to arrive, they were happily enjoying the shade of an old, big tree. With no warning, however, this all changed and one of the women started screaming at the top of her lungs at one of the translators. Her eyes were wild and fierce and no one needed to speak Creole to understand that something had just gone horribly wrong.

The translators are a group of 18 Haitian men, also victims of the earthquake, who either had family at the hospital as patients or had found themselves at the hospital with no family or work. Many of them spoke English, Spanish, French and of course Creole- or some combination of these languages. They “volunteered” as translators, and worked with the doctors and nurses to help them with patients. In all honesty, without these 18 guys, the hospital would never be able to function.
One of the translators had been helping me all day with guarding the gate to tell incoming visitors they only had until 4 p.m. for visiting hours. As the two of us stood there in the beating sun, the woman’s anger intensified and she directed it toward the man next to me.

“Tell me what she’s saying,” my voice started to panic.

He hesitated. “She’s not saying anything,” he finally replied in accented English.

“This woman is crazy, do not listen to her.”

“Well just tell me what’s wrong. Why is she screaming? What’s wrong with her?”

“Do not worry,” he said again. “This woman is crazy, she is speaking crazy things.”

I am not a mother, but the way this woman exploded out of nowhere, could only lead me to believe that she was doing everything she could to protect her family, including the orphaned boy. After another translator came over, he finally told us that the woman was in fact protecting the boy because other people (patients, family members, visitors) in the hospital had threatened to steal him and sell him. This is why the whole family was so happy to leave in the first place. They were going back to Haiti to find the boy’s father before he could become another victim of child trafficking.

Once this message had been translated from Creole to Spanish to English and then back to Creole, the boy became the top priority. But these women did not have any kind of papers for him, just their word. They had spoken to his father via cell phone, had made a plan to meet him in Port-au-Prince and then bring him to the boy.
In this moment, I noticed how my thinking had changed. How when the frenzy was happening not because we realized people wanted to steal this boy for profit, but to find papers to make it “okay” for him to travel with these women– I just wanted to get the keys to a pick-up, tell the family to get in and take them across the border myself. The formalities of the situation seemed ridiculous and completely unnecessary. The bottom line was that this boy was unsafe in our hospital and these women had without a doubt saved his life. Why were we putting up a fight about “proper documentation” when once they crossed the border, that paper would mean absolutely nothing anyway?

After more deliberation, waiting and translating it was finally decided the boy would travel with these women without papers (because in reality, the papers never existed and never would exist). A few more hours of waiting for the now very late bus, the family of five finally boarded the bus and went back to Haiti.

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That night, I found myself wondering to the pediatric ward. It had been a long, hot and hard day, and what I wanted most was just to talk with someone about nothing, even if we didn’t have a language in common. The moment I walked into the converted chapel, there were two young patients (12 and eight) who were practicing counting in Spanish. The 12-year-old had a notebook and had written down 1-30 in Spanish and was teaching his eight-year-old bedside neighbor. Without asking, I sat down on the edge of the 12-year-old’s bed and started counting with them. They never missed a beat and we counted all the way to 100 in Spanish together. After this, he wrote down 1-30 again and I knew he wanted to learn to count in English. We started again, and counted 1-50 this time in English.

Both these boys were in the hospital for broken legs. How severely, I am still not sure, but I do know they both had surgery while I was there. As we continued counting, I told them I wanted to learn to count in Creole. We started to count 1-10 in Creole, and every time I would make a mistake or mispronounce a number they would stop, slowly say the number and exaggerate the pronunciation as to make sure I really understood how to pronounce it. They were so serious about teaching me how to say things correctly, and more often than not I would mess-up they would laugh, sigh and start over. It made my life. By this time, another girl, about 10-years-old with stitches that made a crown around her head came over and started to help as well. For the next hour, we all practiced counting in three different languages as other kids, parents and family looked on and smiled at my incorrect pronunciation of Creole.

Every day after this, I made a point to visit these kids (my kids, as I came to call them) at least twice a day. When I would walk in for other reasons, either to bring food or ask the doctors and nurses questions, they would stop me and quiz me on my Creole number skills. Through everything, seeing them became the best part of everyday.

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There were other good things that happened though. One day, about mid-afternoon, I was frantically running around the grounds doing whatever needed to be done at that moment, and I randomly heard the strumming of a guitar. It was coming from one of the giant tents where the patients were, and I quickly ducked inside to see if my ears had heard the correct sound (when the hospital first opened after the quake, the patients refused to stay inside buildings for fear they would collapse again. Because of this, three large tents were erected to serve as wards where the patients were housed). Inside the tent, was a group of misfits: two of the translators, family members, a few patients that could walk, an American nurse, the Spanish team psychologist and fellow Peace Corps Volunteer, Leeann. I walked into the tent to see the two translators, Olsson and Stanley leading the group in a jam-session. They sang in Creole, French, Spanish and English. The words were simple.

Haiti is alive. Haiti no se murio. The same in French and Creole.

I have never seen a smile like I did that day on Olsson’s face. Olsson’s mother was a patient and he initially came to the hospital with his father and mother to get help for his mom. Soon it was discovered that he could speak fluent English and he started to help the nurses and doctors translate with other patients in the same tent as his mom’s. The previous day, when we had limited every patient to have only one family member, Olsson technically should have been forced to leave, because his dad served as the one family member to his mom. However, Olsson took to everyone’s heart and even the doctors and nurses did whatever they could to keep him at the hospital.

Olsson led the group playing the guitar, along with Stanley, another translator who lost 10 members of his family in the quake. We all clapped in unison and alternated the message, “Haiti is alive!” in the four different languages. It didn’t matter if you spoke all four or none; the point of the song was hope. As I watched Olsson, Stanley, patients in their beds or standing, family members, doctors and nurses sing these words at the top of their lungs, the tears poured out of me again.

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The 18 translators had the toughest job out of all of us. Not only were they victims themselves of the earthquake, but they were obviously translating all the needs, hurts and ailments to the doctors and nurses. Think about this. Every time a patient had a question for a doctor or a doctor for a patient, they had to ask it. They heard all the pain, all the suffering and in return they had to tell their fellow Haitians news and instructions from the doctor. When a patient had to have an arm or leg amputated or something similar in devastation, the doctors didn’t tell them, the translators did

One translator, Valentin, left an impression on me that I will never forget. Before the quake, Valentin was a lawyer in Port-au-Prince. He spoke fluent Creole, Spanish, English and French. At lunch one day, a group of us were talking about him and one of the doctors said, “I told Valentin that if I play my cards right, one day I’ll be smart enough to be the translator and he’ll be the doctor.” To say this guy was impressive is an understatement. He had come to the hospital initially because his daughter had been injured in the quake. Soon, however, his abilities were noticed and he quickly became the lead translator.

This day with the translators and Valentin started off wrong. One of us Peace Corps Volunteers decided to go into Haiti (we only have two rules in Peace Corps and if you break them, you are immediately administratively separated: 1) wear a helmet while riding a motorcycle and 2) don’t go to Haiti). Despite this, the temptation for all of us to go over the border was pressing, to say the least. Jimani is literally right on the border and crossing it is not like going through US airport security on your way home from the Middle East. One of us did decide to go, but that’s a whole different story for a different time.

The person who left was in charge of the translators. Their job was to basically keep them happy. This day, unfortunately, they were not happy. At about 10:00 a.m. I got news that the translators may or may not start a revolt against the whole place. I raced outside to the tents and was faced with angry men telling me they were hungry, nobody would feed them, and that they had worked all night and now had to work all day. I agreed with them and told them that we were going to have a meeting that night at 7 p.m. where we will implement a new schedule and make sure the translators could come eat upstairs, with all the doctors, nurses and other volunteers.

The hospital itself was two stories. The first floor served as the ICU, operation rooms and PACU (Post Anesthesia Care Unit) units. The second floor had rooms were the volunteers, nurses and doctors slept, a kitchen and a common room with four large couches were all these people, including all of us Peace Corps kids, could eat and rest.

At 7:00 p.m., Valentin led his group of translators up to the second floor of the hospital where they expected to have their scheduled meeting. Seven o’clock was also the time of the nightly meetings with all the doctors, nurses and volunteers. The man running the show, we’ll call him Steve, called these nightly meetings and thinking Valentin and his fellow translators didn’t belong, kicked them out immediately.

Feeling disrespected and unappreciated, the translators blew up. By this time, they were outside of the hospital in front of one of the patient tents. All of us PC kids were trying to calm them down, telling them that Steve was a moron and didn’t know anybody who was actually volunteering at the hospital. We tried to tell them it was a misunderstanding and that they were in fact allowed to be upstairs just like the rest of us. Valentin looked me dead in the eyes when I tried to personally plead these words with him.

“This was NOT a misunderstanding,” he angrily and intensely said in English. “We are nothing to these people.” And then switching to Spanish without any hesitation, “Nosotros somos perros. Nosotros somos perros. (We are dogs. We are dogs).” And then back to English, “We are not people to them. And you will never understand it, because you are a white girl. What do you know about us? Nosotros somos perros. Perros.”

He never blinked while he said these words to me. He looked me straight in the eyes and never faltered. When he finished, it felt like my stomach had swallowed my heart. I had no words to say to him, because what I really wanted to say was that he was right.

As much as I wanted to disagree with him and even convince myself that I should disagree with him, what happened sort-of blew my mind. The people running the hospital, the people in charge of the whole operation of helping the Haitian people had shown racism does exist in charity.

I believe the entire circumstance was an issue of skin color. At 7:00 p.m., the room had been scanned to start the nightly meeting with doctors, nurses and volunteers. The people who looked different obviously did not belong there and had been kicked out without any explanation or questioning. Valentin was right. They had been treated like dogs that were not welcome inside the house. These people didn’t care, and what did I know- a white girl- about any of it? As much as I could pretend to understand and sympathize, how could I ever really know what it is like to be one of them? Yes I could see the pain and suffering that was happening all around me, but would I ever be able to feel it?

The Spanish psychologist said something to my friend Leeann that hit home with both of us, “these people lost their family, their friends, their homes, their schools, their work and now they come here and they lose an arm or a leg… what hurts worse?” Valentin was right- how would I, a white girl, ever really understand that?

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The next morning, the patients and family members had a church service in the open space in between the tents. Gathered in a big circle, they sang and chanted Haitian church hymns and folk songs. The truth is, I still don’t really know what kind of songs they were- just that as soon as one would start, every single person, no matter how old or young knew the words.

It made me think about my own culture. During Katrina, when thousands of Americans found themselves in a similar situation as Haitians do now – what song did they all sing in a circle? Did everyone know it? Or was it sectionalized and esoteric in a way? Maybe there is something to be said for a national religion. If nothing else, it brings people together through song.

For the last three days I was there, church would happen every morning. Valentin was the leader. Along with other doctors, nurses and volunteers I stood in the giant circle with the patients and family members and would do my best to follow the Creole songs. As we all sang, danced and clapped, I felt like I belonged and the tears would come again, everyday without fail. It didn’t matter that I was not a victim of the quake. I was there, along with all the volunteers trying to help- and that’s what people needed most.

At church, in these moments, you could see people’s true happiness; it was like a glimpse into the person they were before the earthquake. The men and women that could walk would dance in place to the songs and kids and adults on crutches or in wheelchairs would come out from their beds and smile as they watched, sang and clapped. People waved their hands in the air to praise Jesus and God and to thank them for giving them life. Through everything: the hurt, the pain, the suffering- they were still grateful for life. Being a part of this, I have never felt more proud to be associated with such a dignified group of people.

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There are so many other things that happened, day-to-day tasks that we (Peace Corps Volunteers) were all assigned to, like feeding the patients and family member three times a day, providing an updated daily patient census for the doctors and nurses, keeping the translators happy, translating at any random moment from Spanish to English for anyone who needed it, carrying blood bags to and from the hospital, going into town to bargain for wood from the local hardware store to build shelves in the pharmacy, moving patients from the tents to the hospital for surgery, working with amazing people from all over the world, among others. The stories above were just a few that stood out in my mind that I wanted to share. If you have actually made it this far and read the whole thing- the most important thing to know is that HAITI IS ALIVE. And it’s the people in these camps- the kids I counted with, Valentin, Olsson, the women dancing during church to praise God and the doctors, nurses and volunteers from all over the world spending their time to help, that is going to rebuild Haiti. HAITI IS ALIVE and I for one am excited to see it grow.

Marriage

Last week I went into the capital for various reasons, but one of them was because a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer married her Dominican boyfriend. She has been dating him since about the time she arrived in country (Summer 2008) and will finish her Peace Corps service this May. Although I’m not sure if she always dreamed of having her wedding in the Dominican Republic, marrying him now helps to ensure that she can take her now husband back to the states by May or soon after May.

Peace Corps Volunteers marrying Dominicans happens much more often than I ever imagined, and I know this will not be the last marriage I celebrate before I leave in May 2011. It’s strange, because being here has brought marriage to my attention in so many unexpected ways. PCV’s are marrying Dominicans, PCV’s are marrying each other, young Dominican girls are running away to “marry” older Dominican men and even me, as an American woman, am asked repeatedly from Dominican men to marry them so they can come back to the states with me. The list of goes on and on….

There is a girl from my town named Noemi. She took my first English class and did fairly well. Well enough that she passed my test to move onto the second level of English starting this week. Noemi, however, will not be taking my second English class, because one night in the middle of January, she went out and never came home the next morning. In our American culture, this of course would cause worry, but most people would probably assume she was causing some trouble and stayed out all night with her friends. Here in Dominican culture, it means only one thing: marriage. Noemi never came home that night because her older (I still have yet to discover how much older) boyfriend picked her up and took her to his house, which means Noemi chose him over her family and is now officially “his woman.”

Have I mentioned yet that Noemi is 13-years-old? When Noemi decided to not come home that night, it told everyone, her family, the community, the school, that she was a married and had given everything in her old life up. There is no piece of paper, no legal document needed to prove this. She left and never came home. A 13-year-old girl married, dropped out of school, living in a nearby town with most likely a man at least 10 years older than her.

This is marriage in the Dominican Republic. Noemi is not the first and she definitely will not be the last.

But what about a Peace Corps Volunteer marrying their Dominican boyfriend or girlfriend in a hurry to take them home to the states? In this situation, you have two people who love each other (hopefully) but really live in two different worlds, although for a brief moment in time their worlds are one on a beautiful Caribbean island. When the time comes and the PCV is supposed to return to their previous life in America, I can understand the pressure to make arrangements so the relationship does not have to end. I respect this and admire it in some ways. If you love someone, you should do whatever it takes to make it work. Even if that means uprooting them from everything they now, bringing them to a place where, most likely there are very few other Dominican –Americans (let’s say everywhere outside of New York City and Miami) and telling them to start a brand new life in a place completely new and foreign. What’s the difference between this situation and Noemi’s? Legality? She gave up everything too, is living in a new place away from her family. Granted it’s not America, but in her mind if she loves this man, she is just as noble as the American and Dominican signing legal documents to make one of them a legal citizen.

Last week, Angel, the three-year-old boy who is apart of the family I eat lunch with daily asked me why I don’t have any kids. He was actually fairly perplexed by it, because why wouldn’t I? I am the same age as all the other women in town, including his mom, who have kids. It only makes sense in his mind that I would have kids. And plus, if I did, it would be someone else he could play with. What is most important about his question, however, are a couple of things, 1) Angel was not the first little kid of the week to ask me this question. My neighbor girl, who is either three or four, a few days previous, asked me the same thing. Why I don’t have kids? Do I want kids? 2) Neither one of these little kids asked me if I had a husband. Just kids.

I can’t help but feel liberated when I tell them no- to both the kids and the husband question.

When I tell them that I’m 24 and still don’t have kids or a husband, that’s when the old ladies of my town start to worry. They tell me I need to start having children so I’ll have someone to take care of me when I’m old. I agree with them and tell them I hope to have kids one day and even a husband (Si Dios quiere or God willing), but on my own time. That never goes over well. They just remind me that my time is slipping; I’m already 24 (practically ancient, really) and if I want to get a good man and have kids, I need to get started.

I guess it’s the rush that gets to me. Noemi, at thirteen-years-old, volunteers rushing to marry Dominicans in order to finish paperwork and me feeling the pressure to procreate before my body parts stop working properly.

Being here and seeing marriage in ways I honestly never had before thought about, gives me so much appreciation for my life. And every time a three-year-old or an older lady ask me about marriage, or even a Dominican man asks me to marry him for a visa, I will take great pleasure in the simple word, no.

Investigation on the Mountaintop

Quick Update: Francia just told me that Eddy, my resident "drug dealer," and her half-brother who is also running for mayor was investigated by the Federal Police to see if he really did have ties with drug dealers.

Apparently, two men from town (who happen to be the head guy of my center and the dad of the family who I eat lunch with) who are both coincidentally named Juan Ramon called the Feds to have Eddy investigated. I mean, I can understand their suspicion, but it also so happens that both Juan Ramon's support the opposite political party from Eddy.

Anyway, they called the police, the police showed up to Eddy's house- the "Mountaintop Mansion," as my Peace Corps friends have called it- and searched Eddy and all his workers high and low. They took a passport from someone (not sure who) and a few other cedulas (which is basically a Dominican ID card).

Francia spent most of the mid-morning and afternoon praying up in her room. I could hear her sort of chanting, but I had no idea what she was really doing. Turns out, she was praying everything went well during the investigation.

Well, God answered because the police did not find anything at Eddy's house. He was cleared and is now currently blasting his own personalized themed meringue campaign song, which translates into something like, "For your neighbors, for your friends, for your family- Eddy is the mayor for everyone."

I mean, I can't say I blame him. If the whole world thought I was a drug dealer and found out I really wasn't, I'd also blast a song telling them to vote for me for mayor.